


Begjær

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub, Dominance, Ficlet, Hair-pulling, Light Bondage, M/M, PWP, Rough Oral Sex, Roughness, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 00:36:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8689747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Lindir finally gets to serve the sort of master he craves.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Lindir’s served so many guests in his time, but none like _this_ , not so many high-born, legendary, grand lords all at once, straight from the halls of Mandos. None will say what they have leave for, but they have said they can’t stay long, and Lindir savours every minute he can for it—every last nuance of exquisite splendor straight from Western lands. He keeps the cups of Amrod and Amras full, he brings expensive silk for whatever new robes Celegorm should desire, he sends supplies to Curufin at the forge, and he basks in the warm glow Maedhros and Maglor’s mere presence give his Lord Elrond. Maglor, especially, Lindir loves to serve alone—he plays such extraordinary music. His harp is like a dove, his voice beauty itself. On the rare occasion Maglor will bless Lindir with advice, Lindir clings to every word.

But he spends most of his time in Caranthir’s quarters, because when the stars have risen, Lindir reports straight there and stays until the sun comes. He’s meticulously seen to all the others, fretted all day over every little detail—these all deserve _the best_. But he’s Caranthir’s alone at night, and he bows to the floor as soon as he’s knocked.

The doors wrench swiftly open, as they usually do, and Caranthir, ancient king and revered warrior, barks, “In.” Lindir immediately obeys. He rushes into Caranthir’s guest chambers with his head still bowed, and Caranthir shuts the door loudly behind him to snarl, “You came. I confess surprise.” It doesn’t sound like a confession but an accusation. Lindir stiffens. 

He closes his eyes and bows all the lower, hands on his knees, the dark ends of his hair brushing the moonlit floor. Caranthir’s hair is darker, like all of him; he’s exactly the dark cloud the old stories made him out to be. But Lindir would have it no other way (except, of course, Lord Elrond’s way) and murmurs timidly, “...My lord?”

A sudden hand fisted in his hair jerks him up, and Lindir cries out in pain, spine snapping taut. Caranthir is right behind him—he can feel the broad muscles of Caranthir’s chest through his robes and Caranthir’s tunic. He dresses less formally than the others, more ready for battle. He pulls Lindir’s neck almost to the point of breaking, his chiseled jaw tucking neatly over Lindir’s shoulder, and he hisses into Lindir’s twitching ear, “I saw the way Tyelko eyed you at dinner. He all but slapped your ass. I thought perhaps you would rather suck my brother’s fairer cock.”

Lindir winces at the crude language. His first instinct is to say that such a thing could never happen—Celegorm, from what Lindir’s learned of him, has impeccable tastes, and a lowly servant would never do. Perhaps he has a harem of better-trained and higher-born pleasure servants across the sea, but Lindir is in no way fit for such a role. He’s still shocked and honoured that Caranthir would look twice at him, even just for this. He answers through his strained throat, “N-no, my lord... I have not been, ah... used... by any but you...”

“This time, you mean,” Caranthir snorts. “I am sure a little deviant like you regularly begs for the cock of those he serves.” Then Caranthir throws Lindir roughly to the floor, and Lindir topples over, strewn out across it. He makes no move to catch himself. The impact jars his arm and knee, but he only grimaces and stays down. Caranthir hovers over him to sneer, “Perhaps I should have known better than to think that prissy fool would bed a servant.”

Eyes averted, Lindir nods his head. He quite agrees. Caranthir strolls over to him again, and Lindir dares to look up through wide eyes. Caranthir’s quarters are warm, even with the night breeze drifting in from the balcony, but Lindir’s cheeks are flushed beyond that. Reaching down to thread long fingers into Lindir’s hair, Caranthir muses quietly, “My tastes are more... raw... than that.” Lindir’s grateful for it. He wants to say _thank you_ but thinks better of it: he hasn’t been spoken to.

He shuts his eyes as Caranthir pulls the silver circlet from his head and tosses it aside. It skids along the stone floor, forgotten until morning. Lindir knows it’s no statement of rank, though he also knows that few lords allow their servants such decadent diadems as Lord Elrond. Caranthir just likes to be able to pull his partner’s hair.

 _Partner_. Even thinking the word makes Lindir shiver in delight. He keens as Caranthir grabs a chunk like a ponytail and drags Lindir up to his knees. It’s wonderfully painful. As Lindir is made to kneel at Caranthir’s feet, he feels the complete rush of _power_ that Lord Caranthir has over him, has over almost anyone. He’s utterly _dominant_ in every way. Lindir’s _longed for that._ And he doesn’t care if it comes more roughly than he’d thought. 

Caranthir forces Lindir’s head back again, so that Lindir has no choice but to meet his master’s cruel gaze. Caranthir’s black eyes are burning, his black hair pulled back in an efficient braid, his bow lips and jagged features gnawingly _handsome_. He hisses menacingly, “But you _were_ fawning over Elrond, were you not?” Lindir’s eyes go wider at that—he hopes he hasn’t been obvious, that this is just another groundless taunt, only accidentally true. “Are you his fucktoy too—only serving his guests because he would offer the brothers of his foster-fathers anything they should desire?” Lindir would shake his head, but Caranthir’s grip is too tight. Elrond would _never_ use him that way. And that’s part of why he’s so eager for _this_.

When Caranthir fiercely jerks his hair again, Lindir chokes back a cry and promises, “N-no, my lord! I have not had the honour of sharing my lord’s bed.” Or his walls. His floor. Anything. 

Caranthir seems to study Lindir’s face for a moment, then bitterly decides, “Curvo is right then. I am the only one rash enough to bed a Silvan servant. Perhaps I should better rein in my dignity.” 

Lindir’s sure the disappointment shows all over his face. He would beg, if given permission, but he’s learned the hard way that Caranthir only tolerates begging at certain times. So Lindir just pleads with his eyes for Caranthir to thoroughly dominate him in whatever way his lord sees fit; he just wants _to be used._

Finally, Caranthir dons a lewd smirk and seethes, “But then Elrond’s prized pet wouldn’t have the honour of choking on a greater cock, like he so clearly wants.” Lindir could cry with joy. He lifts his trembling fingers to start on Caranthir’s breeches, but Caranthir smacks Lindir’s hands away and rips the sash from his waist. Then he uses it to lean over Lindir’s back and deftly tie Lindir’s wrists—Lindir holds them subserviently together. Caranthir’s tied him every which way, but this is one of the most thrilling for him—without the use of his hands, he feels completely helpless to his lord’s whims. Just the way he wants. A stronger elf could probably wrench free of the fabric, but Lindir is a lowly minstrel and attendant and could not, would not, even squirm against his bonds without permission.

He’s stuck waiting, eyes fixed forward, as Caranthir opens his breeches himself, not enough to let them fall, just enough to fish out his cock. The dark skin there is flushed purple near the head, the long, thick length swiftly stiffening in the palm of Caranthir’s hand—Lindir knows from experience that Caranthir gets off as much on these games as the sex itself. It helps that Caranthir’s package is particularly large, slightly curved and thickly veined, with a veiled head that Lindir loves to lave his tongue over. It takes considerable will power not to lunge forward and engulf it in his mouth. Instead, he sits submissively still and waits for his master to use him. 

Caranthir snaps, “Open your mouth,” and Lindir obeys. He sticks his tongue out like a panting animal, just waiting for it to be weighed down. Caranthir swats him on the cheek instead with the heavy shaft and rubs up along the bridge of his nose, the tip rifling through his hair. Lindir close his eyes and lets Caranthir play with himself, hoping he looks good enough for Caranthir to recommend to a certain other lord.

He likely never will. And Lindir won’t pretend this cock is Elrond’s. He knows Elrond would not be like this, and besides, he’s seen, from those few times he’s had the immense pleasure of attending to his Lord Elrond’s bath, that Elrond’s cock is slightly thinner but a little longer, straighter, and Elrond’s skin is paler. Caranthir’s balls are tighter. Lindir idly fantasies about serving both men at once and comparing their cocks but pleasuring each—he has more than one hole, after all, and he’s always proved excellent at his job; he can certainly attend more than one lord’s needs. But, perhaps, if Elrond would not give in, he could at least train for that eventual goal by pleasing all seven of Fëanor’s sons in the meantime. He would happily suck Maglor’s cock to the sound of the harp, or ride Maedhros’ cock in the training yard, or writhe between the twins. He still doubts Celegorm or Curufin would use him, but of course he would offer, and perhaps if they realized just how _low_ he would allow them to treat him, how thoroughly and utterly he would accept their superiority...

Caranthir pulls his cock back and barks, “Open your eyes.” Lindir immediately does so. He looks up into Caranthir’s gorgeous face, his mouth still hanging open, and contorts it in a moan when Caranthir drops his dick onto Lindir’s tongue. There’s no time after that to savour it—Caranthir stabs forward, and Lindir gags on the sudden intrusion, though it makes his own cock stiffen in his tights.

Caranthir is anything but a gentle lover, and he gives no room to adjust, simply keeps pushing until he hits the back of Lindir’s throat, and even then shoves on, no matter how much the walls of Lindir’s mouth protest. He fights to keep himself open, the spit pooling up and dribbling around his lips, his jaw trembling to stay wide; he doesn’t dare scrape Caranthir with his teeth, though he wears many of Caranthir’s bite marks beneath his robes. Caranthir stuffs himself down Lindir’s throat and hisses, “Take it.”

Lindir tries hard to stifle all the gagging noises that spill from his convulsing throat, but he does as he’s bid. He won’t prove disobedient now. He knew this was coming, anyway—Caranthir always likes to start by fucking his throat raw. It makes him hoarse and raspy for the rest of the night, but Caranthir seems to like that. And Lindir _loves_ it. He would practice, if he could, but he’s so _shy_ outside this role, and he doesn’t know how to ask Glorfindel or Erestor or any of his other betters to fuck his mouth as hard as they can. He would suckle on his Lord Elrond’s cock every night until his gag reflex died all together if he could. But his demure nature’s denied him the opportunity, and he has precious little experience sucking cock, so he splutters and gags while Caranthir fills him up. 

Just when he thinks he can take no more—his eyes are starting to water and his chin is drenched in spit—Caranthir finally hits the end. His large balls are digging into Lindir’s chin, black pubic hair tickling his nose. Lindir breathes in and lets the pungent odor steady him. Caranthir pulls him firmly in place by his hair—the sting to his scalp somewhat distracts from the burn in his throat—and starts to pull out. Lindir can do nothing but hold his mouth slack and let it happen.

Almost all the way out, and Caranthir slams back in, jarring enough to knock Lindir over, if the hand in his hair weren’t holding him still. He’s gagging again. He fights it. Caranthir grinds his cock in place and chuckles, “You really are pathetic at this. Even now, even when you lust so desperately for a lord’s cock inside you, you have not learned to suck.”

Lindir whimpers his apology around the massive intrusion and _tries_ to suck, but there’s so little room and he’s already so overwhelmed keeping open that it’s difficult. Caranthir slides smoothly out anyway and thrusts forward again, just as harsh as the first time, then again, then another—he works into a furious pace, relentlessly fucking Lindir’s mouth with no regard for how much Lindir struggles to accommodate it. He hollows out his cheeks every chance he gets, and the fierce hand in his hair reminds him when he isn’t being good enough, but there’s little he can do. He wants to wipe the spit off his mouth. He wishes he could taste whatever precum must be lost all the way down his throat. The slightly salty, slightly bitter taste of Caranthir’s cock is like an aphrodisiac. Even when Lindir’s eyes start to spill one, then two tiny beads out their sides, Caranthir is merciless. Lindir shivers with such _pleasure_. The harder Caranthir fucks his face, the more Lindir _yearns_ for it. He would coo and moan if he could, but his mouth is now allocated only for Caranthir’s pleasure. He’s filled with cock one second and wide-open and dripping saliva and precum the next. Then Caranthir grabs both sides of his head and starts wildly humping forward, impaling Lindir all the harder, and it’s all Lindir can do to stay conscious through the assault.

Elrond would _never_ fuck him like this. But _oh_ , if it ever happened, Lindir would be _so good_ for his lord; he wouldn’t even have to be a servant if his lord didn’t wish—he could be a—what did Caranthir call it? A fucktoy. He could be a toy for Lord Elrond’s use. No different than Lord Elrond’s hand. But he would suck and swallow and lick any mess left over off the floor—but he shouldn’t think like that, he knows—Caranthir is his master right now, even though Elrond will always be the one to _own_ him...

Caranthir’s face scrunches in an abrupt roar, and a second later, a torrential flood opens in Lindir’s mouth—Caranthir always comes an absurd amount. Lindir splutters to stay open, to take it all down his throat, but there’s so _much_ , and it comes with such _force_ , stifling hot and sticky and slicking down his walls. Caranthir keeps fucking him, dragging it along his tongue, and the taste makes him buck his hips forward against the air and moan around his mouthful. He adores that taste like nothing else. He’s almost sad Caranthir is coming directly into his stomach, rather than on his face and hair and boots so that Lindir could have the pleasure of licking it up. Instead, he has to swallow, over and over, as Caranthir pumps right into him. 

On the last load, Caranthir drags out and doesn’t slide back in, and Lindir closes his mouth dutifully around Caranthir’s shaft and sucks out whatever’s left. Then he makes a show of swallowing it down and smacking his lips. He has to lick them after, to clean up all the mess that’s spilled, but he only gets halfway before Caranthir steps away and backhands him hard across the face. Lindir doubles onto the floor, panting hard and unable to rise again with his arms still tied behind him. Caranthir towers above and hisses, “I said to keep your mouth open.”

Lindir hoarsely moans, “I am so sorry, my lord.” He truly is. He half hopes Caranthir will punish him. Instead, Caranthir rolls his eyes and stuffs his cock back into his breeches. 

Then he storms off towards the washroom, ordering behind him, “I will draw my own bath. Lie there and digest my seed until I see fit to use you again.”

Lindir murmurs a quiet, “Yes, my lord,” and gets back to wantonly licking whatever’s left off his lips.


End file.
